


Wolf Like Her

by flesh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, References to Bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-08
Updated: 2005-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flesh/pseuds/flesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a monster where her husband used to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf Like Her

The cushion is soft, plump, cream satin. It smells of the sweet violet perfume that Lucius brought back for Narcissa from Prague. Narcissa rubs her cheek against it, concentrating on nothing but the velvety glide over her teardamp skin. Her hair is full of static, frizzy and sticking to her forehead. She had it cut and styled at Madame deQuesne last month, six days before Lucius went away. He’d complimented her on it and slid his fingers through the blonde fall of it, feeling its sleek weight. Lucius _always_ noticed.

“Still snivelling, little girl?”

Fenrir’s voice is a rasp, like the crunch of snow on stones. He punctuates his question with a sharp smack to her buttock. The slap of his palm to the soft curve of her flesh resounds through the delicate elegance of Narcissa’s bedroom. It stings, but no worse than any other time he’s spanked her. By tonight, her body will be purpling, the smooth expanses of pale skin smattered with bruises. She’ll study the frail sliver of herself in the oval of her mirror and wonder what happened to Mrs Malfoy. 

“Rude not to answer, Cissy,” says Fenrir. 

The damp head of his cock is bumping against the lips of her cunt, smearing the slippery precome over the creases of her thighs and down the cleft of her spread arse. His hand is at the back of her neck, pushing her face deeper into her bed. A sob catches in her throat and she can’t breathe for a moment. Not with the man on her back and her cunt aching from being fucked over and over and over again. 

“You are. You’re snivelling. Why? Always such a miserable little girl, aren’t you?”

His big hand settles on her breast. She tries to curl over, to fold herself in two, but his hand tightens. He rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pad of his finger is dry and hard, just like the pads of his feet would be, she thinks, when he’s the wolf. She’s already tender from being pinched and she can’t help her high whine as Fenrir’s grip tightens, the curve of her breast crushed in his grasp. 

“Because you’re going to fuck me,” she grinds out at last. She is a Black, after all, and Blacks are better than any halfbreed scum, even when they’re on all fours. “And you disgust me.”

He does disgust her. Even more so when he kisses the top of her spine, hot and open-mouthed, his stubble grazing her skin. She shudders and presses her face into the cushion.

“I’m not going to fuck you, princess,” says Fenrir. “Promise.”

He kisses her again, along her shoulders and up to the nape of her neck, mouthing over the fine strands of blonde hair that Lucius used to say were more valuable than all the gold in his vault. Fenrir’s voice drops to a low, gentling murmur and though she doesn’t listen to the words, she feels some of the strain shiver away. It’s hard not to hope these days. She finds it where she can, even in Fenrir’s rough-handed strokes. 

Her tears are silent and she hides them in the cushion. They roll down her cheeks while Fenrir smoothes his hands over her breasts and hips. He drags his thumb along her collarbone and she knows he could break her with his bare hands. He knows it too but there’s an odd carefulness in the way he moves over her. She can still feel him behind her, still feel the stiffness of his cock between her thighs. But he’s not the savage, brutal thing he normally is, and suddenly she’s weeping again, choking on pleas for him to please just let her go and get out of the manor. 

“Hush, baby girl, hush hush hush. Don’t cry.”

Narcissa opens her mouth to drag in breath and abruptly needs it to scream. Fenrir’s cock is shoving into her, the blunt head forcing its way into her, not fucking her, not doing anything but penetrating her. Narcissa jerks and thrashes, trying to throw him off but all it does is lodge his cock even deeper into her.

“No!” she moans. “You promised! You promised!”

Fenrir rubs her lower belly, kneading the flesh, and says, as if he isn’t holding her down with his greater weight and splitting her open, “Think I’ll fill you up with puppies. Would you like a puppy, princess? I’ll put lots of squirming pureblood puppies in your belly and you’ll pop them out like a good little bitch, won’t you?”

Cold panic cuts through her misery and Narcissa shrieks, pummelling the mattress with her fists. 

“No! No! Get off me! How dare you! How dare…!”

Fenrir laughs and thrusts into her. Her cunt spreads about his cock, aching and sore. The muscles in her thighs are coiled too tight and her legs begin to wobble. She can’t hold his weight up any longer and she crumples beneath him. He collapses on top of her, still riding her, slamming into her. She’s crushed beneath him, drowning in the thick blankets of her marriage bed.

“Full moon tomorrow night, princess,” Fenrir pants. “Going to take some of Snape’s clever little potion and come see you. And you’re going to be a good little bitch and waiting for me, aren’t you? So I can make you the wolf’s as well as mine.”

Narcissa can’t shake her head but it doesn’t stop her trying. 

“Wolf’ll scratch you up a little,” says Fenrir. “Have to dig its claws in tight so it can get its cock in you, but he won’t hurt you, little girl. So you’ll be good won’t you? You’ll hear wolfie coming up the stairs, and you’ll take off your nightie and get on the bed, won’t you? Get your legs spread and your arse up in the air so wolfie can mount you nice and easy.”

There are red and black spots creeping in at the edges of her vision. She can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but get fucked. Her voice is gone and she can only whimper as Fenrir’s tongue slides over her jaw.

“Don’t you want a puppy of your own, little girl?”

She’s almost grateful when she passes out. 

*

Narcissa drops her damp towel and moves into her dressing-room. She slides on a black silk dressing gown and sits down in front of the mirror. Her lip is split and there are bruises at her throat. She begins to tremble again and her shoulders droop. Her own reflection is too much for her to bear and she closes her eyes. 

“You should have come to me sooner.”

She nods. Meekly.

“Silly little girl. Little girls can't handle big nasty doggies on their own, of course they can't. Such a silly little girl.”

She nods again. Narcissa doesn’t flinch when the heavy silver-backed brush is passed through her hair, the tangles tugged out with well-practised care. 

*

Narcissa sits on the edge of her bed, clutching her gown closed about herself. The manor is full of the tiny noises of night: the ticking grandfather clock, the settling creak of floorboards, the sigh of old walls. She rubs her temple with the heel of her hand and opens her mouth to speak. 

There’s panting beyond the door, thudding on the stairs. 

Narcissa looks up, eyes wide. The monster’s coming.

Bellatrix’s reflection slides long and dark over the silver blade she’s carrying. Her smile is a poisonous thing.

“I’ll buy you a puppy tomorrow, Cissy,” she says. 

The monster's coming but Narcissa has a pureblooded one of her own.

END


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